


"Enjoying" lowblood performance art with Zebruh Codakk

by SidaSidaEee



Category: Hiveswap, Hiveswap Friendship Simulator, Homestuck
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Biting, Forced Bonding, I absolutely fucking hate Zebruh, Multi, One Shot, Past Sexual Abuse, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rough Oral Sex, Scratching, Sexual Abuse, Tentabulges, Zebruh has sex slaves, Zebruh is a really terrible person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-05 00:05:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16356800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SidaSidaEee/pseuds/SidaSidaEee
Summary: Zebruh invited you over and promised you'd be home by dawn. Looks like that's not going to happen, and he's already made plans for morning entertainment. Absolute fucking bastard.





	"Enjoying" lowblood performance art with Zebruh Codakk

At some point in the pre-dawn, your phone's battery dies. Zebruh takes it from you, saying he has a charger in another room. He leaves the door open when he leaves, grinning at you occasionally from down the hallway. He doesn't end up giving it back.

"Oh no, it's only two hours before dawn. It wouldn't be safe for you to leave now, especially with your palmhusk exhausted. ♥Would you like to stay the night instead?♥" he asks, in a firm way that gives you the impression that it's not really a question. As soon as you start to nod, he smiles and sprawls back into the armchair across from you.

"This is great!" He starts to ramble again. "♢We'll have time to enjoy some performance art together.♢" Performance art? No, wait, asking for clarification was a mistake. He takes a deep breath and- "Other highbloods love visual art as a way to display their superiority. It's simply not accessible to everyone, and they choose to exploit that inequality to their own benefit. I think that's really selfish." You can't help but notice that behind him is a painting, the size of a king bed, of two rustbloods doing something that looks both obscene and incredibly painful. You try not to draw attention to it. "Lowbloods have created their own counterparts to a lot of highblood culture, in ways that don't need the same education or resources."

Zebruh gestures at the servant sweeping in the corner. "A lot of my guests are artists who lost their support elsewhere. ♧I help them get back on their feet, network, you know.♧" The servant takes a few steps closer, glancing at you uneasily. She seems like she's making a very complicated calculation in her head. "♢Do you want to get your partner and show us your act?♢" The calculation is getting closer to an answer. "We want some snacks, too," he adds.

Glancing at you one more time, the lowblood nods and smiles with hollow eyes. She stumbles out of the room and Zebruh turns back to you like she was never there. "♠You've probably never heard of live personality jamming, have you?♠" You dutifully inform him that you, in fact, have not. "Thought so," he says. "Hold on a sec, I just remembered I need to help the performers set up." He walks out into the hall, again leaving the door open.

The servant from before comes back just before him, holding a tray with two garishly colored bowls. Zebruh stops staring at her just a moment too late for you to not notice. He's holding the other "performer" tightly to his side, one arm all the way around his chest so that his claws are almost touching the tiny iron charm on the rustblood's necklace. "♧These are the Halt Signal Charade. HSC for short.♧" The rustblood gives you a little wave, and the servant, still setting down the snack tray, nods over her shoulder. "Let's give them some time to set up."

Whatever the act is, it doesn't seem to require much setup at all. Certainly, once Zebruh is sitting on his side of the couch and set up with his snack bowl, he seems to expect results very quickly. You pick up your bowl (Fried insects? No, chunks of some sort of vegetable) and look up just in time to see the first servant take off her skirt. She tosses it aside with a halfhearted flourish, avoiding eye contact. Zebruh smiles and puts an arm around you, which feels like heavy clay sticking to your shoulders. As she strips further you can tell her blood color by her - her bulge, you guess, olive green and swinging slightly as she moves. When you try to look away, the only place left to look is Zebruh's face, a few inches from yours.

"♥Enjoying the show?♥" he asks, and you can't quite remember how to say words. "They're some of the best in the biz." You manage to say something about not having seen enough to judge by, and he laughs just as you try to excuse yourself to use the bathroom or something. Now the olive is pulling the rustblood's shirt over his head, letting the little amulet drop to the floor. It looks like some sort of sign, different from any you've seen before. The rustblood kicks it under the other clothes as she starts on his pants.

Zebruh keeps talking, always a moment before you'd say something about what's going on. "♧I think it's a beautiful commentary on blood relations within the lower castes. It's sort of a microcosm of the overall highblood/lowblood dynamic.♧" Aren't th- "♢Olives, as the highest of the low, are still victims of oppression but also, tragically, take violent roles with the lower castes.♢" Soon enough you give up on getting a word in sideways.

As the olive kneels down, the rustblood grabs her horns theatrically, one at a time, and she pauses partway through unbuttoning his fly to segue into some sort of wrestling takedown that leaves him, almost terrifyingly thin, sprawled out on the floor and crushed under his relatively burly partner. Zebruh stammers for a moment, and his arm, now down to your waist, tenses, but he doesn't stop his inane and inconsistent anecdote about how he met these two. The olive continues where she left off by pulling the troublesome pants down in the back and slipping her hand through to the front, which elicits a whimpering gasp. She meets your eyes for a moment, urgently trying to convey a ten-page essay in a second and a half, but all you can do is stare blankly back.

It's not long before Zebruh's wandering hand reaches the hem of your dress. You brush it away the first couple times, but very soon you start to regret having looted your clothes from a costume closet instead of, say, a regular person closet, which might have had underwear in it. Eventually it comes to rest a couple inches up under the lace and you give up. The two lowbloods are somehow levitating a few feet off the carpet now, awkwardly struggling for dominance, and Zebruh is practically panting down your neck. When you make the mistake of eye contact he smiles and unbuttons his pants.

His bulge seems much slicker, bigger, and more.... animated than the lowbloods', practically squirming its own way out of his boxers. The thought of what that must mean for the performers makes you retch, reflexively jerking forward, but Zebruh takes the opportunity to push you off the couch, grabbing hold of your waist. "♠Eager, aren't you?♠" he gasps, pulling you into his lap and covering your mouth before you can respond.

While Zebruh's hands are full with keeping you in place, his bulge starts to explore between your legs on its own, pushing your bunched-up dress out of the way. He beckons to the rustblood, who pauses in the middle of clawing at the olive's thighs to scrunch up his face and levitate the two of them towards you. "♥You know, the real beauty of performance art is that the audience can also take part,♥" Zebruh whispers in your ear, and you take the hint.

You reach out to the oliveblood, whose legs are now a couple feet away at chest height, and see her wince when you make contact. Silently whispering an apology, you pull her in by the calves and grab her thighs, pushing them apart with some help from the lowblood. She makes no move to stop you, but you can see where she's gripping her partner, and she's digging her claws in hard enough to make constellations of puntures across his buttock and shoulder. He is staring up at you from between her legs, and when Zebruh puts a pressing hand on the back of our head you end up bowing down to kiss him.

Now Zebruh's bulge is sweeping up and down, covering the insides of your thighs in slime, down and up to your ass, and you feel an uncomfortable flush of arousal. You break from the kiss, try to get your head up, breathe, think, and now the hand on your head is pushing again, pushing right between the olive's legs as she senses you coming and tries to push her thighs together-

And suddenly he's inside you, and in the brief rush, the absolute blank panic that brings for a moment, he pushes the rest of the way and the acid taste of troll saliva in your mouth is replaced by sweat, cheap soap and something new, a sweet and sour slime you can feel trickling from ribs on the sides of her bulge as it slips into your slack-jawed mouth. The oliveblood makes a sound somewhere between a yelp and a croak, a fraction of a painfully hoarse scream.

Zebruh's hand keeps pushing, and you feel the oliveblood's bulge start to expand and thrash in your mouth, and suddenly it's slipping down your throat and you can't breathe and there are tears in your eyes and, oh god, Zebruh's bulge is squirming inside you, making you feel about five things at once that are all screaming at you in your head, and it doesn't even take a steady lack of oxygen to make you lose track of what's going on. The oliveblood must be doing something intense to her captive in turn, because the rustblood squeals and scrabbles to take hold of you, slipping his claws up your dress and raking them across your chest hard enough to draw burning lines of blood. He wraps his arms around your midsection, resulting in his head getting wedged awkwardly upside down and one of his horns, broken and sharp, jabbing right between your legs.

You'd scream, but the olive's bulge is still expanding into you, bigger and bigger and impossibly big, and you're not sure whether your spasming lungs are more desperate to exhale or inhale. Tears of pain join the fight against your vision, and as though that weren't enough, gray spots start to rally in the periphery as the suffocation starts to make you feel lightheaded. You flail your arms, trying to push one or both of the lowbloods away, but someone grabs each in turn and pins them together. Zebruh pumps himself against you, grinding you onto the jagged horn with excruciating force.

You can only think of one thing to do. You bite down. This time she tries for an all out scream, but you can tell something is wrong; she rasps and gasps and her voice doesn't quite come to her. You can feel her folding her legs up, trying to kick just over your head - where your horns would be - an instinct drilled into her by experience. You're not sure, but you might just have passed out by the time the first kick lands, twisting your head back against the force Zebruh is still putting on you. His hand at least saves you from whiplash harsh enough to have snapped your neck. In the next half a second, his push just magnifies the force of the heel to the eye you get as a followup. Still trying to come back to life from the thorough choking you've just experienced, you wonder whether your right eyeball has just exploded and slowly decide on a "No, but almost."

The taste of troll blood is new to you, a mix of copper, iron, and bile with a tacky texture. You realize with horror that the oliveblood is bleeding from fully half of her bulge, a sleeve of score marks where your teeth tore the slimy, tender flesh almost all the way to the tip. The last thing you want is to go back in and risk doing more damage, but Zebruh's hand, slightly gentler and now stickily sweaty through your hair, makes it clear what he wants. You give the mistreated bulge a light lick, a signal or maybe a warning of your intentions, and it flicks away from your face.

You manage to free one hand and set it to wrangling the oliveblood back into your mouth, and the sight of crimson on your palm makes you suddenly aware of the torture you've managed to ignore while struggling for your life. The rustblood has forcefully wedged his head between your legs now, slashing his other horn across your thigh, and through some combination of claws, teeth, and cruelly timed thrusts on Zebruh's part, he's decently approximated the effects of a pants-down dash through waist high rosebushes. He is, of course, as clueless about human anatomy as you are about troll anatomy, so his attempts at stimulating you instead hurt you about as much as he could manage if he tried. Every time you can almost block out what's happening again, thorn-sharp teeth rake awfully across you, bringing tears to your eyes and drawing out whimpers of pain that he only seems to take as encouragement. Even Zebruh's efforts as he uses you like a sex toy are more enjoyable, and by the time you get your favorite lacerated, semi-flaccid bulge back in your mouth, you're trying to gag yourself to stop encouraging him more than anything.

It takes you a couple tries, sucking once and spitting out blood, to get back to work. At one point you feel a strip of torn skin uncoil in your mouth and almost throw up, which is actually about the only thing you can imagine right now that would make the situation worse. Trying to keep your teeth out of the way, you focus on using your tongue to coax your miserable toy back to full size, carefully avoiding the deep scored lines that earn you a neck-twisting hip thrust if you touch them. Soon the oliveblood's legs curl around behind your head, reflexively pumping you in and out without Zebruh's help, and you can almost feel proud if you ignore absolutely everything else about what you're doing.

Figuring out how to elicit more of this seemingly positive response is the only distraction you have from Zebruh's increasingly desperate use of your sore ass and from the rustblood's apparent goal of scratching you as thoroughly as possible from your knees to your chest. As he and Zebruh start to realize how much more of a reaction they can get by clawing and pinching directly at your nipples, you wonder just what the oliveblood must be inflicting on her target at the far end of this cycle of torture. Craning around her hips to see, you catch a glimpse of her grabbing his bulge with both hands, eyes squeezed shut in a blush of shame, twisting like she's wringing out a slimy, bloody washcloth. You promptly go back to minding your own business.

Your business, of course, is her business. You can prectically feel the hatred and embarrassment radiating into your face like heat as you make her body betray her the way yours is betraying you. When the rasping comes back, soft but heavy, you think you know what's about to happen.

Nothing could have prepared you for the torrent of thick, unbearably sour sludge that pours out of those same ribs, spilling out from between your lips and burning your throat like heartburn from the top down. If your tears and pathetic whimpering ever stopped, they come back now, in full force. A new pair of hands is touching your face now, alternating a halfhearted push back and a desperate, spasmodic pull forward as an uncontrollable urge to fuck your face overpowers the pain of her wounds filling with torturous acid. The slime just keeps coming out, almost black when it spills from your lips and unbearably thick when you try to swallow, no, drink the endless, hot stream she can't stop pumping into you.

When she's done you try to stop, pull away, but you're being pushed in again and suddenly Zebruh's fingers are in front of you, teasing at the base of his new victim's bulge, poking at and sweeping across places that make her shiver and tense. Soon she starts sobbing, given no time to recover before you're forced to take her into your mouth again and help Zebruh continue his sadistic work.

You can feel your own climax coming on, almost, almost, and you even start grinding painfully on Zebruh's hips when you feel him shift, relax, and start cumming into you himself. He grabs your hips and holds you down, keeping his bulge inside of you to pour in more sticky slime. It's almost, almost, enough to push you over the edge. If only you could move your hips, stand the pain of bruises and awkward stretching for a few more thrusts while he fills you up- You're close to giving up whatever shred of dignity you might have left and begging for it.

Instead he abruptly pushes you up and off him, giving you one more awful, piercing brush with the rustblood's assaulting teeth before you tumble to the floor. Unfulfilled, you feel yourself come down hard from whatever insignificant hint of pleasure let you withstand your ordeal. You start crying right then and there, unmoving, sprawled on the floor in a filthy, torn dress and smeared with three different colors of blood and slime both.

"♠You enjoyed that, didn't you, you little slut?♠" Zebruh states casually, and the brazen expectation that you'll accept his outright lie stuns you into silence. "You're really a natural. Now excuse me, I just need to go wash up."

The two lowbloods fall out of the air in a heap, the olive clutching her bulge in searing pain and the rustblood looking at his crimson-streaked claws and arms like they're a murder weapon he was just handed for forensic analysis. As Zebruh heads out the door, he pulls three of something from a drawer and tosses them to you in a ball. Clothes, of some sort, to replace the filthy pile of discarded outfits that's been rather unfortunately dripped on by several unpleasant substances.

When you take a closer look, the clothes aren't much at all, really just some sort of high-waisted underwear meant to cover, you guess, the dully blood-colored scars at the sides of a troll's abdomen. You realize quickly that, whether the fabric is meant to be sheer, they've just worn that thin in the wash, or both, these really won't hide much. When you turn back to the other two, they seem to be in no shape to get dressed yet, so you lie back down on the floor and don't bring up the change of clothes.

Eventually Zebruh comes back to pick up your dirty clothes like nothing's wrong, and the three of you force yourselves to your feet and put on the ridiculous, useless underpants. Zebruh heads off to hand off the clothes off to some servant, and the lowbloods lead on downstairs, barely able to walk for pain but seeming to know where they're going. You follow along, trying to ignore the solemn stares of the servants around you. You wonder how many of them have walked this walk of shame themselves. The rustblood opens the door to what seems to be a closet, but turns out to be.... a closet, but a bit bigger than you'd expect and with a couple of oversize recuperacoons shoved into the corners.

One of the recuperacoons seems to be out of order, leaking green slime all over the floor that reminds you a bit too much of your recent experience with the oliveblood. You try to avoid looking at it directly and cram into the other recuperacoon with your commiserators, who don't even bother taking off their coverings before droppping ass-first into the goo. When you try to join them, the oliveblood seems to panic as soon as you touch her, struggling her way out of the recuperacoon to curl up on the floor next to another troll, hiding under the broken recuperacoon, whom you hadn't even noticed as you came in.

"amtine doesn't [] do well with physi[] physical contact," the rustblood explains, his voice rough, seeming to pause occasionally to take a break from speaking. "bastrd really [] likes olivebloods." He waves at the other troll, who seems engrossed in tackling a big, juicy slice of bug in the tiniest slices she can possibly cut. "hell, rinaen there [] is lucky today [] doesn't get a night [] a night off often"

You ask if there's anything else you should know about Amtine. About, you know, her voice, maybe. The rustblood sighs. "well, yeah," he says, bracing himself for the longer stretch of talking to come. "bastrd said we [] we were the HSC [] halt signal charade [] red yellow green [] brunum clasise amtine." He makes a sound like clearing his throat, but significantly more concerning. "someone wanted us [] dead, don't know [] why or who [] clasise got got [] me and amtine got [] our squeal pipes [] real fucked up [] amtine's whole squawk blister [] straight up gone"

Brunum almost manages a chuckle. "not much of a [] stage career after that [] song and dance [] hard to do with [] two thirds of a dance [] and no song, so [] bastrd took us in" He sits back for a bit, rubbing his throat, which you now notice is crossed with a lumpy asterisk of rough scars. "hives got robbed while [] we were getting [] put back together on [] bastrd's buck, now we [] there's nowhere to go [] so we're here [] picking up trash [] getting fucked [] pretending to be [] artists"

Rinaen, in the corner, gives you a little wave. "hope'you'still'have'a'way'out," she whispers, blurring words into each other. "if'not'welcome'to'the'crew'i'guess," she says, like it's nothing. She grimaces, grabs her upper arm like she's trying to hold herself down, and goes blank again, staring at her food and at the little knife in her hand in silence. You realize, now that everything is gone. He has your phone, he has your wallet, and your only clothes more modest than a cling-wrap Speedo are ruined. Maybe you don't have a way out.

But maybe it's the tingle of the sopor slime, turning the burning pain of four square feet of shredded skin into a more manageable ache. Maybe it's just the aftermath, the end of the wave of shock that's carried you through the past hour. You have fucking had enough. Something takes hold of you, moving your limbs and blocking out your thoughts, and you step out of the recuperacoon. Rinaen doesn't seem to mind your taking the knife at first, but by the time you're at the closet door she's gripping her arm again like it's a life raft and whispering instructions for breathing exercises. The knife's not all that sharp, meant more for cutting burgers than for cutting trolls, but you think you've seen enough stabbings in your time on Alternia to work around it. How hard can it be, really?

Yes, you're covered in sopor slime, and still shaking, and you may as well be naked. You have no idea what's on the other side of the closet door, or what your plan is, or what you're going to do later. You know what you have to do right now.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I started writing this. I feel like I had to finish it.


End file.
